


Fall and Rise Again

by katherine1753



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Bible Quotes, First Kiss, Forgiveness, Introspection, M/M, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Redemption, Religious struggles, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:40:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26636734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katherine1753/pseuds/katherine1753
Summary: For the GO-Events POV Pairs Prompt: 'There Was Only One_____' , Crowley's POVAfter the apocalypse-that-didn't, Crowley and Aziraphale move to a cottage and spend their days in domestic bliss. Coming up on the year anniversary of the first day of the rest of their lives, Crowley wants to get Aziraphale a gift. He hears about a treasure-hoarder's bunker that had just been discovered and goes to check it out. He finds something that has been long lost, and it changes his life.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 86
Collections: GO-Events POV Pairs Works





	Fall and Rise Again

It had been nearly a year now since the apocalypse-that-didn’t happen happened. And in that almost-year, Crowley had been happier than he could ever remember being in his many thousand years of existence, time spent in Heaven and with God before the Fall included. He was free. His Angel was free. It was everything he’d been hoping for and dreaming for and working for, all thanks to the Antichrist. And a bit of help from him and Aziraphale, of course. Now that Heaven and Hell were no longer tracking the two of them, or expecting various forms of paperwork, or dropping in unannounced (Aziraphale’s side), or crawling up from the depths of Hell (Crowley’s side), and because both the Angels and Demons seemed rather afraid of the pair of them, they were free to live their lives on Earth as they pleased, which was honestly mostly what Crowley had already been doing. But now that his only obligations were to one fussy Angel and not all the Demons of Hell and Satan, he was finally able to fully enjoy things how he had always wanted to, without the constant threat of discorporation or being caught. 

Aziraphale had also finally become less resistant to the idea of the pair of them being more outwardly-friendly. Well, they had already been going on lunch dates and drinking expensive wines in the bookshop and meeting at museums and such, but now Aziraphale no longer had to pretend or sneak around or constantly worry and look over his shoulder. And when his Angel was happy, relaxed, content, and any number of  _ nice  _ words, so was Crowley. It was all he’d ever wanted for them, after all. Spending every, or nearly every day with Aziraphale had been a dream and he would take any and every bit of it that he could get. Maybe it was the Demon in him to be greedy, but he didn’t much care anymore. 

They spent their days together, dining at the Ritz or little hole-in-the-walls or going on picnics, taking walks in the park and feeding the ducks, reading in a cozy chair in the bookshop (Aziraphale) and napping on the cushy couch (Crowley), visiting museums and theatres and aquariums and opera houses and all the little things they’d ever enjoyed in their thousands of years on Earth. Almost losing it all really helped you appreciate the little things. And then there was the day that Aziraphale had taken his hand on one of their strolls through St James’s Park, and had not released it until they had returned to the bookshop, the shy smile on his face making Crowley’s insides go all wobbly. That day Crowley considered one of the best days of his whole damned life. 

They would both occasionally stop for a quick temptation or miracle; it was hard to stop the habit, but they were all little things now. Tiny inconveniences that were entertaining to watch. Small miracles to brighten someone’s day. 

After a month or two of living their lives to the fullest, Crowley had tentatively suggested the idea of a cottage in the South Downs. Aziraphale’s beaming smile was all the answer that Crowley needed. And so they had moved into a spacious little cottage, still maintaining their residences in Mayfair and Soho, but enjoying the vast majority of their time at the cottage. At home. 

_ Home. _ It was the first time Crowley had truly felt it. There had been places he’d lived, places he’d called his house or his flat or whatever the humans were up to these days, but this, this little cottage in the South Downs, full to bursting at the seams with books and antiquities and plants and his Angel, this was  _ home.  _

Aziraphale had lined nearly every wall with bookshelves, organized in a way that only made sense to him. Crowley had threatened nearly every plant on the property, and now they had a lovely little garden wrapping around their cottage, with a little stone path and a birdbath and a comfortable bench to sit on and watch the world go by. Aziraphale had been learning to cook, and had been using Crowley’s newly grown vegetables. Crowley had been eating a little more food, tempted to try each of his Angel’s dishes if only because Aziraphale’s hopeful looks completely wrecked any resolve he ever had. And  _ he  _ was the Demon,  _ he  _ was the one supposed to be doing the tempting. But was it really tempting when it was Aziraphale? Everything about his Angel was tempting to Crowley, and he knew none of it was on purpose. And so he grew the vegetables and tasted the home-cooked meals and everything in their wonderful new life was so incredible. And seeing his Angel happy was the best part. 

_ Almost a year, _ Crowley mused, glancing up from his row of carrots to catch Aziraphale passing by the kitchen window, happily stirring something in a large bowl. He smiled to himself as he watched his Angel through the window. Seeing Aziraphale this happy, this free, was truly the best part of all of this. It made all of their work and sacrifices worth it. He turned back to his carrots before he was caught staring for too long; he was still a bit sensitive about that, still making good use of his incredibly dark (and incredibly cool, if he could say so himself) tinted sunglasses. 

_ Almost a whole year, _ he thought again as he pulled up the last of the carrots that were ripe enough to eat, setting them gently in his basket. It was coming up on that day, wasn’t it? And rather quickly too...Crowley paused. He hadn’t  _ forgotten _ , per se, the almost-apocalypse had been on his mind nearly every day since then, probably multiple times a day if he were being completely honest. And every emotion he could have ever had about it, he had felt. Every thought that could have passed through his mind, must have. Everything from sobbing, gut-wrenching night terrors to bouts of drunken glee when he couldn’t stop laughing with a newly lightened heart. And Aziraphale had been there with him through it all. No, it hadn’t slipped his mind at all. It was just the timing of the thing. It was...sort of an anniversary wasn’t it? For the two of them? Dates were so meaningful on Earth, and it had been the first day of the rest of their lives, after all. 

He wondered if he should do something for the occasion. He wondered if Aziraphale was doing something for the occasion, or if the Angel was expecting something. It was definitely a happy memory for Crowley, all in all, despite the trauma and angst and occasional nightmares about it. And despite the world almost ending. And despite almost dying. Because he  _ didn’t  _ die and neither did Aziraphale (which was much more important anyway), and because it meant his freedom, his Angel’s freedom, and he got Aziraphale from all of this. He knew Aziraphale had been struggling with it more, and for longer, and he wasn’t surprised. He found he actually understood a lot more thoroughly than either of them had expected. Being suddenly cut off from Heaven was...a  _ lot.  _ And while Aziraphale didn’t  _ Fall,  _ he still lost all of that security and reassurance (even though most of it hadn’t really been all that real to begin with), and Crowley intimately understood that it was a lot to process and wrap your celestial mind around. For something you’d believed in whole-heartedly with your entire  _ being,  _ for your entire  _ existence, _ for millennia, to be taken away, disproven, and disappoint you, well, it was a  _ lot.  _ That was all Crowley could say on the matter. It still weighed heavily on him to this day and his Fall had been thousands of years ago. One year, a measly one year, was still incredibly fresh to a celestial or infernal being such as themselves. But with the clear joy and happiness that literally shone from Aziraphale nearly every day, surely he thought on these events fondly too. Surely he was thankful for his freedom. 

Should he get Aziraphale a gift? It was what most humans did on anniversaries, after all, both romantic and platonic. He didn’t want to overstep, of course. And though some days that was definitely harder than others, with the Angel  _ right there  _ with his tempting self all the time, Crowley was truly happy to be just friends. Real, true friends. It was more than enough. But friends also celebrated anniversaries. And friends also gave each other gifts. Would Aziraphale be expecting something?

Crowley frowned to himself. He couldn’t think of anything to give Aziraphale that the Angel didn’t already have, or anything that he would need. He knew his Angel so well, yet a gift to celebrate something so momentous was impossible for him to think of. Sure, he’d brought flowers and chocolates for the opening of the bookshop. The occasional tickets to some new play or musical. Picking up the tab at a number of fancy restaurants. But this was  _ different. _ And a nice dinner somewhere was completely out of the question because he’d been treating Aziraphale to that at least once a week already. No, this had to be something more special. He’d have to think on it more.  _ Later, _ he decided as Aziraphale poked his head out the front door announcing a tray of fresh-baked cookies were ready. Dark chocolate chip, Crowley’s favorite. Of course. It was always the little things that made Crowley’s heart melt the most. And maybe he could take inspiration from that, but Crowley liked big grand gestures. Plus he’d been doing so many little things for so long he wasn’t sure if Aziraphale would even notice. He smiled at memories of Aziraphale’s happy little wiggle at the small gestures Crowley had always done for hundreds and hundreds of years. Anything that could make his Angel even happier would be worth it, no matter how big or how small. 

- - - -

Scrolling aimlessly through his mobile the next day, while Aziraphale quietly read next to him on the couch, Crowley found an article that caught his eye. An old treasure hunter’s hoard and stash had been found in a secret buried bunker. Archaeologists had stumbled across it on an expedition for something entirely unrelated by a few thousand years, and multiple museums from around the world were sending their experts to analyze and document the findings before making a decision on what to do with what was found. Nothing specific in the findings had been named yet, but the article stated that the bunker contained a wide variety of things ranging from ancient artifacts from many cultures to stolen priceless paintings, missing jewels, things robbed from prominent graves, fossils of both human and non-human origin, gold, and rare maps and books. Crowley’s interest was piqued. And something deep within him, deeper even than his infernal nature it seemed, felt a pull towards this place. He absolutely needed to go and check it out. As soon as possible, he felt. 

And so with his Angel at home ( _ home _ ) with a new cookbook and a promise to text pictures of the most interesting finds (mobile phones were very new to Aziraphale and he was fascinated with their ability to transmit photographs), Crowley was on his way. The drive there was uneventful, but it was fun to go as fast as he wanted on the long stretches of country roads, unencumbered by traffic or pedestrians or bicyclists that should really get out of the way. He and Aziraphale often took drives around the countryside, especially in the better weather, for picnics and walks. But his speeding was only reckless then, and not dangerous like he was driving now. Well, it would have been dangerous for a human, in a regular car, but he and his beloved Bentley handled it just fine. 

He pulled the Bentley up to the makeshift parking lot outside the newly-discovered bunker. There were a few other vehicles there, mostly vans marked with prominent museums and a scattering of rental cars from those overseas, and Crowley was a little smug that his was the only classic car in the car park. Stepping inside the bunker was like something straight out of a movie. The first room looked like an abandoned warehouse, or at least like it had been at one time: it was huge, mostly empty, a wide flat expanse of a room. But it was flocked with scientists in hazmat suits cleaning and prepping things for travel. Crowley waved a badge he had made saying he was an art expert from the British Museum and they had let him pass through without question. Though a few pieces were being taken into the front room for preparation and cataloguing, nothing was being taken yet, just careful notes and photographs. 

The second room, though, was the treasure room. There were lights and extension cords rigged up to generators around the perimeter, everything was covered in a layer of dust, half of the people in the room were wearing some sort of protective gear and the other half looked like a bunch of extremely excited scientists. Rows upon rows of shelves lined the place floor to ceiling, with said eager scientists scrambling up and down. There was more  _ stuff _ in the room than Crowley had ever seen crammed into one place, save for maybe Aziraphale’s bookshop. The bunker had everything, and there were experts from every field there. 

Paintings were stacked dozens deep, where a few gloved curators were carefully carrying and lining them up onto racks in the first room of the bunker. A very excited looking Geologist that Crowley recognized from the Smithsonian Institute was nearly swooning over some large amethyst cathedrals to a nearby Paleontologist Crowley thought he also knew from America, perhaps the Field Museum, who was carefully making notes about a jaw section of something big and carnivorous. A series of Anthropologists were noting which pieces needed to be respectfully returned to their original cultures and which could be sent along with the Archaeologists back to museums for further study. 

There were statues and sculptures lining a quadrant of the bunker, looking as if they were having a gathering or an intense conversation. There were ancient clay pots. A drawer full of miniature paintings to rival those Crowley had seen at other museums. Large tables covered in maps. A huge cabinet stuffed full of trinkets, nautical instruments from lost ships, scientific instruments from centuries gone by. Another cabinet that looked as if it were filled entirely with human skulls, very, very old human skulls. A stack of gleaming gold bars just stacked in a corner (next to a burly looking security guard, of course). 

Something that looked very much like the Arc of the Covenant gleamed against one wall in the artificial lights. Crowley knew it wasn’t the real thing, he had seen the real one of course, but this was a very close fake that was at least a thousand years old, so definitely worth something. He lingered over it a bit before moving on. There were so many things to catch the eye and grab your attention. It was like the world’s most prolific and messiest museum. Surely that was a van Gogh. Surely that was a Michelangelo. And surely that was a da Vinci? Crowley had one of those. 

He walked past a few countries's worth of Crown Jewels that he was sorely tempted to nick a few of, and a few extremely old and very fine looking cases of Scotch that he was even more tempted about. He may have to secretly acquire one or three of those. Aziraphale would appreciate the expensive liquor. Mind suddenly back on Aziraphale he remembered he was meant to be taking pictures for the Angel. He snapped a few of his surroundings just to give him a general idea, work up his excitement a bit, and let him be patient about any more photos because then he’d understand the sheer volume that Crowley was working with. 

He thought he’d finished his first turn about the room, when he noticed a dimly lit corner in the back, behind a towering shelf full of exciting things that looked perilously close to toppling over. No one had been back there yet, it seemed, as he still left footprints in the dust. There were a pair of nondescript bookcases. Maybe he should’ve dragged Aziraphale along, though the book count wasn’t exactly high, he really was a leading expert. 

The shelf on the left looked to be first editions of classics, if Crowley’s time in Aziraphale’s bookshop had taught him anything. Aziraphale already had all of those, he was sure, but he wanted to send him a picture anyway just in case. He sighed as his mobile didn’t have enough signal in the back of the bunker to send any texts. Whatever. He’d take the pictures and send them when he was finished. 

The shelf of books on the right looked to be older, probably all worth a lot in the nice condition they all seemed to be in and based on their age. He snapped another photo and turned to keep walking; Aziraphale would let him know what was worth what and if any were worth... _ commandeering. _ Crowley chuckled to himself at the joke. He would steal them. He would steal every last book for Aziraphale if the Angel wanted (though Aziraphale would surely be horrified to hear that Crowley had done so). 

As his eyes flickered back to his phone screen, opening the text app to save his quick message to Aziraphale, a flash of dusty gold caught his attention. He stopped mid-stride, attention finally fully focused on the bookshelf. There was a large tome on the middle shelf, laying on its side, with gold gilt edges softly gleaming under decades of dust and disuse in the dim fluorescents. Something about it felt...Crowley frowned. He wasn’t sure how to describe it. But it was the feeling he had felt when he first read the article that had drawn him to this bunker in the first place. He felt some sort of power on it, something that he hadn’t really, truly felt in thousands of years. It made his insides go all wobbly. This book was divine in some way. 

Part of him (the demon part, probably) screamed at him to ignore it, to leave it alone, to go back to the barrels of alcohol up near the front. The divine books on Aziraphale’s bookshelves always did give him the heebie-jeebies. But. This one felt almost purer somehow. Which obviously made him wary to approach it. He looked around, expecting there to be some sort of desk or tools for the books and reading or what have you. Against the wall there was a small table with some book repair equipment Crowley was way too inexperienced to touch. If that table had been there before or if he had called it into existence, he wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter because there was a ruler on top and that was exactly what he was looking for. Crowley grabbed it and slowly and dramatically approached the book. He momentarily wished he had gloves, just in case. It would be so cool if something happened, he thought to himself, like an explosion or something from a heist movie when he touched it. Except he was the demon touching the potentially divine object and surely that wouldn’t end well for him. 

The book had a relatively intricate brown leather cover, with ridges on the spine and interesting layering on the front. It was definitely bound and sewn by hand, but extremely professionally done. It looked old, like really really  _ old,  _ like some of the first books Crowley ever saw. And though Aziraphale probably already had at least one of these, Crowley hesitated. The Angel had taken to an almost hoarding of books, more so than previously, keeping one copy of everything in their cottage and a second copy of everything in his bookstore. Crowley couldn’t blame him. After losing everything, he’d taken to adding some layers of precautions too.

Crowley leaned over the book, took a breath, and gently opened the cover with the ruler. The binding creaked and fell open, the vellum parchment pages gleamed up at him in the sad lighting in his corner. He frowned as he studied the first page, and then carefully used the ruler to open the book to a section a little further back. There were two columns of stamped text on each large page, with beautifully hand painted rubrications and illuminations. It looked familiar somehow, and the artwork especially stood out in Crowley’s brain. The detailing along the edges specifically, he thought he had seen this before. The beautiful leaves and intertwined wings, the scrollwork, the gold paint…

He jumped back in alarm, dropping the ruler in his haste. It clattered to the ground noisily and he glanced around but no one seemed to pay him any mind. His heart thudded wildly in his chest as the memories came back to him in a flash. 

1455, Germany. Or maybe it was still the Holy Roman Empire at that point, countries seemed to change so much to someone immortal like Crowley and he couldn’t always be bothered to keep track. Plus his thoughts were racing too much right now to figure it out. Aziraphale had been rather proud of his incredibly rare double-volume, vellum parchment edition of the Gutenberg Bible. He had paid extra for the gilt edges and the most extravagant decorating possible at the time. His was arguably the most unique and elegant, and the Angel had bragged a little about it. The vellum was heavier than paper, but Aziraphale had loved the texture of the parchment so, and specially requested it be bound in two huge volumes like the few paper editions instead of three or four like some of the other vellum versions. They split at the psalms, Crowley remembered. All of them truly one-of-a-kind, and Aziraphale’s bible was the most unique of them all. 

He had lamented that Crowley couldn’t read it, couldn’t  _ touch  _ it, even back then in the fifteenth century, and he was suddenly very glad he didn’t touch the book just now. That probably would have been very, very bad. He probably would have discorporated on the spot, and the paperwork that involved...plus the fact he hadn’t been back to Hell since the almost-apocalypse and he sure as Heaven did not want to go back right now. 

This was probably one of the most Holy things left in existence, and it probably hadn’t been touched in centuries so it was incredibly pure. He leaned a little closer, not daring to breathe. The artwork. He knew the artwork for sure. It was the same as the artwork that Aziraphale had had in his editions, one of which was stolen in a raid a century or two ago. Aziraphale had been distraught, and Crowley knew it wasn’t about the millions of dollars worth that was stolen in one volume, it was the fact that it was  _ his  _ and it was  _ special  _ and it was  _ Holy _ and the Angel wanted nothing more than to protect it with every fiber of his being. 

Crowley had been forced to take the blame for the raid, to put it in his paperwork for the head office. Though he had had absolutely nothing to do with it, and thank Satan, thank God, thank  _ someone _ , Aziraphale had known he was not involved. The pain it caused his Angel, he’d never want to do something like that. 

He remembered after the theft, the pair of them had come across another copy (much less extravagantly decorated) in a museum, and Aziraphale had stared at it so wistfully it nearly broke Crowley’s cold little heart. He had been thankful for his shades, otherwise he thought the open bible might have burned his eyes out. Aziraphale thought he was being ridiculous, but Crowley could never be too careful with things like this. 

But the timing of the theft certainly lined up. The thief that had taken this half of the bible from Aziraphale was the treasure hoarder of this entire cache. And in an instant, Crowley knew he had to do everything in his power to get this volume back for Aziraphale. The scotch and jewels were completely forgotten. 

Taking up his ruler in hand once more like a knight with a sword, he closed the bible carefully. He grabbed a few other books off of the shelf in areas that would look the least touched or disturbed by their removal or relocated volumes, and stacked them on top of the bible. It wouldn’t do to have someone else find it while he figured out how to get it. Poor Aziraphale had been missing his book for decades and it had been just sitting down here for who knows how long. Crowley would not mess this up for him, not when it was so close. A newfound determination set in. 

He distractedly snapped some pictures of priceless artwork as he walked by on his way out (he had to send  _ something  _ to Aziraphale in the meantime, at least) and headed back to the rural town nearby to see what sort of supplies he could collect. 

He needed to get the bible out tonight, there was much too high of a risk leaving it there, and it seemed like the scientists would be finishing up their cataloguing any day now. The tiny town had a little hardware store, thankfully, and he managed to scrounge up a pair of pink and purple gardening gloves with rubber fingertips, a couple paint mixing sticks, and a set of grilling tongs. It wasn’t much. Definitely not ideal. But he’d work with it. The gloves were less than what he’d hoped for, especially, but maybe the little rubber pads on the tips would provide enough protection. 

He needed this. He needed this for Aziraphale. It was the one thing he could give him that  _ mattered. _ The Angel had given up on it; so many books had been lost or damaged or burnt or destroyed throughout the millennia that they’d been on Earth and though Aziraphale was the best at tracking down precious books, even he knew when searches became pointless. The only two books Crowley could recall him ever missing and truly giving up on were the second half of his Gutenberg Bible, and the Prophecies of Agnes Nutter. And they’d lucked into the Agnes Nutter one purely by accident and sheer luck, and maybe that was even more rare since there was truly only one, but each Gutenberg Bible was completely unique so there was really only one of those too. Crowley sighed to himself. He needed this to work. 

But could he even get it for his Angel? Could he even pick it up? Put it in his bag? Carry it to his car? Drive with it back to their cottage, their home? Crowley sighed again, picking at his jacket sleeves. Holy things made him so twitchy.

And who could blame him, really? He thought back on his attempts to steal some Holy Water, and the heists he had planned, and decided that the only person he trusted to go through with the obtaining of this book was himself. And Aziraphale, of course, but that defeated the whole purpose of this thing. 

Holy Water would kill a Demon. He knew that fact intimately. Churches burned his feet whenever he stepped inside them or on their grounds, some more than others depending on how far removed from religion they were and how sinful their congregation was. None of the corrupted priests throughout the decades had ever been Crowley’s doing, he couldn’t stomach that, but he did find that his feet burnt quite a bit less near those churches. Hearing scripture quoted made his ears sting, or when it was done by someone more devout it gave him headaches. Seeing bible verses printed on the sides of buses or on signs or on museum walls made his eyes burn or tear up in different amounts, and it was another reason he was thankful for his glasses. 

And by the time he had nearly worried himself to death, he was already back at the bunker. They were getting ready to close up for the night, but he mumbled some vague excuses at the security guards, waved a nonsense badge, and Anthony from Fine Art Restorations was allowed into the bunker. He’d almost slipped up and mentioned books, but it’d be best if his cover was entirely unrelated. He’d seen enough spy movies to know that. 

He made his way back to the little dusty corner, happy to see that it still looked exactly how he had left it, and set his sad collection of tools on the small table. There were only a handful of cartographers left in the building, and they were back in the first room with the better lights, completely engrossed in an old sailing map from the 1800's. He was alone back here, and should have plenty of time. Assuming he didn’t burst into Holy Flames or melt or something right on the spot. 

Crowley tied his hair back and put on the gloves. His leather satchel sat ready and open on the table. He took a breath, and moved the other books he had stacked on top, being careful not to touch the bible underneath. 

He stood for a moment and just looked at the intricate cover and bindings. He was terrified to touch it. Absolutely terrified. But he  _ wanted _ , he wanted so badly to do this for Aziraphale. It had not been his fault in the first place, but he felt he needed to. It was like asking for forgiveness, one of the last missing pieces of their lives over these past six thousand years. 

One look back at his sad little grill tongs told him they would be more of a hindrance than a help. He’d have to pick it up. With his hands. Gloved hands, yes, but still his hands. Hands which were currently shaking. 

Maybe he could start with a gentle approach, best to just get a little bit burnt than fully discorporate on the spot. And yeah, maybe he should have told someone where he was, just in case things all went pear shaped, but who would he have told but Aziraphale?

He took a breath. “ _ Please,”  _ he whispered, a prayer.

With a shaking hand, he reached out, hovering the tips of his gloved fingers over the book. And he felt...tingly? But not in a wholly unpleasant way. The feeling was definitely one of divine origin, he could tell, but it was not as suddenly painful as he was expecting, as he was used to. He frowned to himself. 

It...had been a while since he had noticed the scripture pains. Since the apocalypse-that-didn’t, if he really thought about it. Maybe they had faded slowly, maybe he just hadn’t encountered many printings of verses lately, but surely he would have noticed? The Holy Books Aziraphale had at home...he had loads of them, didn’t he? Had Crowley not been feeling them lately? His mind surged faster than the Bentley. 

Maybe because it was a truly selfless notion, his wanting to get the book for Aziraphale. Or maybe it was because the Angels and Demons truly believed the pair of them immune to Holy Water and Hellfire. Or maybe God had begun to forgive him. Or maybe God just loved Aziraphale enough that this was possible at all. But with reckless instinct, he ripped off the glove and set his hand directly onto the bible. 

It ached, deep in his hand, deep in his bones, deep in his chest, he could feel it in the remnants of his soul, but it did not burn. It was a deep ache, like where a piece is missing, like a hole that’s been needing filling, like a pain that’s always been there and not quite forgotten. There were pins and needles in his fingers, in his soul, like they had been asleep and were just beginning to wake up. 

He gasped at the feeling and his fingers twitched, but he let them stay, feeling the small jolts under his skin. Though with the almost-apocalypse and everything, Aziraphale had lost all hope and faith in the other Angels (and Crowley had trusted his fellow Demons even less), the Angel was still devout to God, and Crowley had always believed, too. Crowley still believed in God no matter how much it hurt to Fall. The world had not ended no matter how close it came, and yes it seemed Adam had almost everything to do with it, but surely God had meant it that way? And for any of this, or all of this to happen? He shook himself out of those thoughts, questioning too deeply was what made him Fall in the first place. He couldn’t help it, he had just wanted to know things. And his natural curiosity had been picked up on by the other Fallen Angels that used him for those bold questions, those creative ideas, that they never would have been able to come up with on their own. 

His shaking fingers opened the cover, and lightly traced the words on the vellum pages beneath. He stared in wonder at his unblemished fingertips. And it hurt, it still hurt to touch, but it was that deep internal ache and not burning or discorporting or any number of horrible things he had been expecting. Maybe he was less of a Demon since the not-apocalypse, or maybe Heaven was less of a threat to him, or maybe there was a bit of forgiveness he was feeling (and that made him very afraid to feel). He didn’t know. 

There were parts inside of him that he could feel that he hadn’t felt since his Fall. They hurt too, suddenly awakening, but it was a good hurt. He let out the breath he’d been holding, surprised to feel wetness on his cheeks, and oh, he was crying. 

His fingers traced over the first psalm. “ _ Blessed is the one who does not walk in step with the wicked _ ,” he read to himself in a soft murmur. And he had questions, so many questions, deep, burning questions, but he would not ask them. Could not ask them. They frightened him too much, and there may not even truly be answers. He would accept what he was given, this seemingly second chance, and cherish it. 

He wiped at his eyes with his other hand and then reached out to pick up the bible. He held the heavy tome to his chest and the ache within him was so strong that it threatened to knock him over, the emotions sweeping through him nearly causing him to cry out, but he stood strong. It was almost like Falling, but backwards. 

When he was able to catch his breath again, he gently put the bible into his satchel. “Thank you,” he whispered fervently, another prayer. And he felt...well, it was...it was another feeling he hadn’t felt in so long that he couldn’t quite tell what it was. 

He left the bunker, still a mess, but hoped the security just assumed he was another emotional scientist. The bag rode in the front seat of his Bentley, and he kept glancing at it on the drive back. He’d have liked to have given it to Aziraphale with some ceremony, perhaps wrapping it or at a nice dinner, but he felt this couldn’t wait. It would be very late by the time he got home, but his Angel rarely slept. 

And, a few hours later, and much calmer than before, Crowley pulled up to their house, and sure enough there was a light on. He hesitated at the door, a new set of nerves creeping up on him. Clutching the bag to his chest, he stepped inside. 

Aziraphale was in the kitchen, baking again. Most people didn’t bake at three in the morning, but most people weren’t his Angel. 

“Hey, Angel,” said softly. 

“Crowley! You’re home,” Aziraphale beamed at him. “You didn’t send me any pictures after that first set of the whole room,” he pouted adorably. “Was there nothing as exciting as they’d made it seem, or did-”

“I got you something,” Crowley interrupted. He opened his satchel and held out the bible, hands still shaking. 

Aziraphale dropped the bowl he had been stirring, cake batter completely forgotten on the floor. “Crowley, that’s-” he gaped. He'd never seen Aziraphale at such a loss for words. “That’s...this is... _ Crowley.”  _ He looked as if he were going to cry, and Crowley didn’t want to make him cry. 

“It’s been there this whole time,” he said softly, letting go when Aziraphale finally took it in his hands, their fingers brushing. 

“And you- you’re not... _ how _ ?” Aziraphale looked panicked for a moment, but clutched the bible to his chest and Crowley could see the relief in his eyes. 

“Don’t know,” Crowley replied. “Probably something to do with…” and he pointed upward. 

Aziraphale shook his head, willing to accept that as an answer for now. He took Crowley’s hand and led him to the living room, and slid the tome into place beside its other half, the only empty spot on the shelves surrounding them. Seeing the empty spot finally filled made Crowley's heart do funny things again. It reminded him a bit of a parable, long forgotten. Lost, but now found. Two halves back together again. Aziraphale ran a hand over the spines lovingly. The look in his eyes, the happiness on his Angel’s face, this was what Crowley had wanted. What he had hoped for. 

“Thank you, Crowley,” Aziraphale said quietly, the gentle smile on his face even more, even better, than any smile Crowley had ever seen. 

“Knew it was yours. Knew you needed it,” he mumbled self-consciously, still reeling from the events of the day and his never-ending questions in his mind. They'd talk about this more later, he was sure of it. 

“I’m so happy, I could kiss you,” Aziraphale said, and it seemed like the words maybe had escaped without him thinking, and Crowley’s heart had been through enough today, but-

“Y-yeah?” he managed. And Aziraphale kissed him. His lips were soft and warm and better than Crowley had ever imagined. And he felt that mysterious and ancient feeling once more, the one he had deep in his chest back in the bunker. And he recognized it now. Remembered. God was smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!


End file.
